Ingredient 15 - Children

Now, there is little doubt that I was thinking of that damned Whitney Houston song when I decided to add "children" to my LONG-ass "List."  But, quite frankly, I'm in the sort of mood today that has me washed ashore, laying lackadaisical-like in the shallow surf of life.  In other words, if you are wanting to read all about how children are a gift from god, and how they are the only sure element that makes up our collective future, you are going to be disappointed...and probably a little appalled by this post (it's blog-posts like this one that make so many people follow me "anonymously," no doubt).

Anyhoo, I think children are annoying and needy.  Sure, they are cute...well, SOME of them are cute...which brings me to a quick point of detour: I'd like to take a moment to thank baby jesus and all the saints in the sandbox for Facebook!  I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve; I wear them on MY FACE, and this can present quite the problem when seeing a newly ejected vaginalworm for the first time; however, thanks to Facebook, I can see pics of the bug-eyed beast before I meet it in person, so I can aptly practice and perform my "aw, it's adorable" expression in preparation for the day that the new mother (SEVERELY blinded by love) shoves the drooling, wrinkled, shit-machine into my arms.

Technology is truly a gift...that will eventually destroy us all, but in the meantime: a gift.

Thank you, Facebook, for making me seem much nicer than I really am.

So, where was I?  Oh yes.  Children are annoying and needy...even the cute ones, and ESPECIALLY the ugly ones.

 Let us begin with the newborn stage:  FIRST of all, how is the ratio of food-intake to shit-output even possible with these little fuckers?  They drink milk (or formula)...that's all.  So, please explain to me how LIQUID produces diapers filled with turds that a grown man would envy. 
Seriously...once, my infant son made a diaper-deuce that was an exact, true-to-scale replica of the Vatican (true story), and he rendered this monster marvel from an intake of breast-milk!  WTF?

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**NOTE: From this point forward, everything I say applies to most children, with the immense exception of my awesome son, who pretty much launched into full sentences with a tinge of a British accent when he was eight months old.  At six months old he was performing the Electric Slide and The Running Man without missing a beat.  At four months, he had a better understanding than I did of the universal remote control that worked a series of half a dozen electronic devices, and I'm pretty sure he had just about worked out Einstein's Theory of Relativity right before his first birthday.**

Rather than bore you with a list of all the things that pretty much prove that children are a result of questionable decision-making, I have compiled a couple of descriptive examples, apropos of this post's purpose as set forth by my current apathetic mood.  They go like this:

When I am at the grocery store, and I catch a small child staring me down from its comfy little buggy seat (lazy little shits), I always do one of two things (if the mother isn't looking): 1) I make a scary face, or 2) I quickly divert my gaze and do my best to pretend I don't notice the turd jockey (cause you KNOW that it is steady sitting on one) before the mother can force an interaction between me and her annoying offspring.  Please note: I have only made one child cry with my scary faces, and I have never made that particular face again.  The minute I saw the baby's lips curl down and begin to quiver, I ditched the Ben and Jerry's and high-tailed it outta there.  I heard her wailing from the next aisle over.  I felt bad...for leaving my ice cream behind.

I still think that kid was a bit of a drama queen cry-baby, but whatevs.

Most of the time, pretending not to notice the wet and sticky sounding coos and gagas emitting from the child is sufficient, and I can go about my business without interruption.  BUT, every now and then, there is a mother so proud of her slobbering, blathering DNA recipient that she says something like, "Oh.  Who do you see, Susie?  Is that a nice lady?"  Ha!  No.  No it's not.  At this point I pretend to be in a bit of a hurry and intensely focused on my high-calorie, high-fat snack of choice.  But, these kinds of mothers NEVER give up: "Oh.  I bet she would love to see your sweet smile...just as soon as she's done gathering her boxes of cookies." 

So now I'm obligated to turn, smile, and act surprised.  "Oh my goodness!  Where did YOU come from?  Aren't you just adorably...small."

"Yes.  She's small for her age, but she is so smart, aren't you Honey-Bear?  Show the nice lady how you can say 'mama'..."  A long pause while the child just sits there looking slightly retarded and shitting herself. 

"Go ahead, Honey-Bear.  Say, 'maaa-maaa.'"   More silence as I watch the disgusting creature blow bubbles from her mouth and nose.  The mother, now feeling as if she needs to prove something says, "Oh, you're just being shy...you silly little thing." 

I think to myself: Bitch, your child just looked me dead in the eye while mashing a turd out.  She is now smiling at me as she jams a finger into each nostril and lets loose a boorish kind of grunt, all the while, still making eye contact.  This child is a lot of things, but SHY ain't one of them.

So, I offer a crooked smile - constructed of half fake-nicety and half-disgust - and begin to roll my buggy away.  "Have a nice day," I say.  And just as I am almost home-free in making the turn from the end of the aisle, I hear the mother exclaim with what is obviously an exaggerated volume.

"She said it!  Good girl, Honey-Bear.  You're going to be the smartest First Grader in school this year!"

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When I visit the home of a friend or relative that is "blessed" with the presence of a small child, I will do one of two things - depending upon my mood: 1) I will happily engage the child in play and things of a silly nature, or 2) I will give them the evil-eye which serves to warn them that they better not so much as look at me.  I admit that most of the time, I partake in option one...until my superior intellect grows bored of the dummy.  Regardless of my mood, though, the parents almost always want to put their child's language skills on display, and just like every other visitor, I reluctantly play along:

"Tell everyone what you did today, Bobby," instructs Mom.

Bobby says, " Izwintedatwelendidapoo."  And the little bastard is looking directly at me, which lets everyone else off the hook and means that I am the chosen one to decipher and respond to the gibberish.

I think to myself, Thank God I caught the word "poo," and I respond, "Oh my goodness! Did you go poo-poo like a big boy?"

Bobby looks confused, and his mom looks at me as if I am the village idiot.  She says, "Um, no.  We went to the pool today."  And the bitch scoffs at me!  Then - as if to prove that I am the dumbass, rather than her stupid, stupid kid that obviously has no language skills at all - she commands Bobby to tell me about "what he's going to do with paw-paw later that evening."

Bobby says, "Pawdawnatasamebitedatweteneyesdawntomaseabibooenit."

Here's some free advice to new parents: when your child says something to someone, and that same someone looks to you in a questioning manner, this is a clear indication that only YOU can understand the little fucktard, and therefore translation IS REQUIRED.  Also, if you think other people cannot smell the load that your kid is toting in his pants, you are INcorrect.  Perhaps because "Bobby" is of your gene pool, you do not find his body's waste product to be offensive.  But IT IS SHIT, and as such: IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT to the rest of us.  Just FYI.